


just runnin' cross my mind

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fantasizing, Humor, M/M, Masturbation, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29671212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Seraphim is unapologetic about adding to Hermes' workload.
Relationships: Hermes/Seraphim (Blood of Zeus), Seraphim/Seraphim
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	just runnin' cross my mind

“Don’t wander too far,” Seraphim chides softly as he swings a leg over and slides off his chimaera, scratching roughly behind her ear. Pleased, she emits her usual rumbling purr, tongue lolling heavily out of the side of her mouth. “Find something to eat and come right back here.”

She nips playfully at his fingers in response, pulling a genuine smile to his lips, and with a final nuzzle into his hands, takes flight once more, in pursuit of a hapless forest creature that's wandered too far from safety. Seraphim watches her slow ascent for a moment, then sighs heavily, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of life. This is his favorite spot to bathe, the water crisp and clear and still somewhat warm from the particular angle of the sun’s afternoon rays, but if anyone were to happen upon him, they’d have no difficulty spying on him at his most vulnerable. 

Perhaps it’s absurd for him to worry about being seen in the nude, considering he is currently covered in the blood of four—no, five—of Acrisius’ sons, but nonetheless—he can’t help but glance around as he unties and drops his stained cape to the ground, followed by his equally filthy fustanella. He usually slips into the water immediately at this point, taking some refuge in whatever cover the gently lapping surface provides, but the day is bright and pleasant, the sun’s rays beaming soft and warm against his bared skin. He chuckles to himself, tilting his head upwards as he remembers the dying shrieks and bloody gurgles of the men he’d killed—untying the bands around his braid, combing his fingers through waist-length blood-spattered tresses—as he remembers the visual poetry of their mangled bodies, lying broken and insensate in the dirt. 

“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself.”

Seraphim’s bident is hefted in his strong grip before the soft, wry voice has finished speaking, crouching in a half-turn to see who has so unwisely infringed upon his privacy. 

“Put that down,” the god chides, lips upturned in a self-assured smirk. His eyes are hidden from view, shielded beneath a glimmering golden helmet with a wide brim that sharpens to narrow points, as if crafted solely to split the air before him. His arms are broad, his right bicep wrapped in some sort of golden sigil, one that glints lazily in the sunlight as he raises an arm to shift his helmet backward, revealing his full face.

“Who are you?” Seraphim growls. If this glowing bastard tells him to kneel, he’ll let loose his bident and simply deal with the repercussions as they come.

His eyes are a cool, vivid blue, and belay no hint of trepidation or disgust as they deliberately travel Seraphim’s naked form. “I am Hermes. And you...are Seraphim.”

The combination of the god’s meandering gaze and the amused, appreciative lilt of his voice abruptly remind Seraphim of exactly how exposed he is, and he spares a moment of gratitude for his skin’s inhuman pallor as he spears the ground with the end of his bident. Performs a rapid mental calculation: he doesn't sense a threat from this god, only mild annoyance and intrigue. Hermes’ eyes never leave his form as Seraphim feigns sudden disinterest in the conversation, wading into the water until he’s completely submerged, then rising to the surface again, whipping wet hair out of his face.

“What do you want?” Seraphim demands, the raspy words carrying across the water.

Hermes tilts his head at him, his gaze at once mocking and heavy. “I want you to stop adding to my workload.”

Seraphim quirks an eyebrow at him, a bit thrown by his docile manner, the way his blue eyes never stray away from him as he tips his head backward, hands rising to massage the caked-on blood from his scalp. “What? Why should I care about your workload?”

“Do you know who I am?” Hermes returns, curious. He has thin golden bands criss-crossed against his upper thighs, as well. They're powerful and muscled, and Seraphim barely remembers to look away the moment he realizes he’s staring.

“You just said your name is Hermes.” 

The look Hermes shoots him is half-disbelieving, half-petulant, and it is so indicative of a pompous, egotistical immortal of Olympus that Seraphim can’t help but snicker, closing his eyes against the tempting vision this god presents as he scrubs harder at his hair, continues talking. 

“I have no interest in keeping you all straight, if that’s what you’re pouting about.”

“I ferry souls,” Hermes snaps, and Seraphim nods, waits patiently for him to continue talking. "Every t—" and then he ducks beneath the surface again, rising to blink sedately at Hermes through wet eyelashes, enjoying his mounting irritation. “Every time someone dies," Hermes continues stiffly, and a bit louder, "I have to collect their soul and see it safely to the underworld.”

Seraphim snorts, shrugging slightly. “And...you have come seeking my condolences?”

Hermes opens his mouth, then shuts it, narrowing his eyebrows at Seraphim in suspicion. “Are you being _funny?”_

“I don’t know, pretty helmet god. Are you laughing?”

“Your bloodlust is growing untenable,” Hermes says briskly, uncrossing his arms, drawing himself higher as he glares narrowly at Seraphim. “You are killing too many!”

Seraphim hums noncommittally, extending his arms to drift languidly in the water. “Have I angered the Fates?” Not that he would care.

Hermes’ expression is skeptical enough to make Seraphim wonder if he’d spoken that thought out loud. “Not...necessarily, but—”

“Then you have come simply to scold me,” Seraphim concludes, turning his head in the water to eye Hermes shrewdly, enjoying the way he swallows heavily, his brow slightly pinched. “Or to ogle me, I cannot yet tell which.”

Rather than leave in a frustrated huff or offer an abashed stutter, as he is expecting, Hermes’ lips spread in a slow smile, his gaze weighted as he stares back at Seraphim. Then he glances heavenward, palming the top of his helmet to resettle it on his head, his eyes once again hidden as he turns his head back in Seraphim’s direction—his body braced as if ready to take flight. A pair of miniature golden wings rise from the back of his sandals, beating the air with the furious rapidity of a hummingbird.

“You are not what I expected, Seraphim,” he offers enigmatically, and before Seraphim can begin to parse his meaning, Hermes is gone in a barely-audible rush of wind, a dizzying blur of white and gold. 

“Huh. Speedy,” Seraphim notes idly, and then his chimaera lands in the grass, her growl low and suspicious, evidently annoyed by the recently vacated presence. She swings her head to regard Seraphim balefully, her eyes questioning.

Seraphim shrugs, returning to his previously unbothered position, floating in the buoyant water beneath the glassy blue sky. “He has more sense than most of them, that I can say.”

Her unamused huff of air as she lowers herself to recline in the grass speaks volumes.

* * *

That night, Seraphim dreams of him.

It’s not an unusual occurrence, nor one that he bothers feeling embarrassed about. He’s become accustomed to these random, meaningless infatuations, usually with thick thighs, broad chests and easy, knowing smiles—though a god, that’s certainly new. No matter. He will not need to examine this further; he doubts Hermes will make a second appearance, and he has much more important matters at hand than whatever gets his dick hard from day to day.

Alright, well, perhaps he isn’t lost in a _dream_ dream _,_ per se. But it’s dark and he’s alone; the same justifications apply.

The same justifications that allow him to turn onto his back, letting his thighs fall open as his hand makes its purposeful way downward, biting back a grunt at the hot curl of pleasure as he strokes himself slowly over his clothes. He thinks of Hermes’ heated gaze, the subtle upturn of his lips as he looked at Seraphim’s cock hanging heavy between his legs.

Seraphim knows what he looks like: his off-putting complexion and crimson veins, his mismatched eyes, protruding horns and animalistic growl, the sharpness of his teeth. But he’s aware, too, of the way that some of the men and women of the villages his people raze to the ground watch him when he passes, biting their lips, their chests heaving with fear and excitement both. He’s smelled the husky arousal and tasted the longing in their blood, heady and sharp even after he’s carelessly spilled it, though more often he’ll just give them what they want, their bodies opening slick and yearning under his tongue, his fingers, his cock. Power—it’s what he’s owed, what he wants, and the only recourse to it that he’s found, aside from simply snatching the life from another, is in burying himself in them, making them thrash and whine and pant beneath him, begging to be claimed, possessed. 

Seraphim gently scrapes the sharp points of his claws up the inside of a thigh, gritting his teeth against a moan as he imagines Hermes, in all his lean and pale splendor, spread wanton and wanting against the soft grass of the meadow he’d found Seraphim in. Tossing aside his small scrap of clothing as he licks his palm and wraps a hand around his aching length, muffling a moan as he strips down his cock with firm, even strokes. He wonders what the god would taste like, that lovely pink mouth falling open as Seraphim licks down his pale, smooth neck, affixing his lips to a perfectly curved jut of bone to bite and suck. A blurt of milky white fluid slicks his fingers and Seraphim strokes faster, his stomach tightening in pleasure. Maybe Hermes would let him unravel that neat braid, his chestnut brown hair spread in rippling waves beneath him as he arches up into Seraphim’s touch, nipples tightening to hard peaks against the firm planes of his chest. He thinks of the way Hermes had said his name—low and intrigued—and his hand moves faster, catching more of the precum that drools steadily from his slit, the tight glide pulling a louder, rumbling moan from deep in his chest. 

Does a god blush? Whatever—Seraphim doesn’t particularly care for accuracy at this point, choosing to have Hermes’ skin stained dark pink as he gives a breathless shout, fingers tightening in Seraphim’s hair as his divine cock massages Seraphim’s tongue, already leaking liquid ambrosia down his throat. Legs shifting restlessly apart on his pallet as he fondles his heavy balls, eyes shut tight as loses himself in the carnal fantasy. _So full, so good_ —he’d probably hold Seraphim there, the tight grip of his godly strength unforgiving in his lust, hips jerking as he empties himself down the mortal’s eager throat, beads of sweat finally dotting that flawless brow. Too satiated to do anything but sigh in surrender when Seraphim places those powerful legs over his shoulders, driving his cock into that holiest of places, relishing the sweet sound of Hermes’ broken cry, his small whimpers with each deep stroke Seraphim gives him and gives him and gives him. 

“Fuck,” Seraphim bites out, his first unbidden word, skin prickling with lust as he humps into his fist, nearly overcome. 

_“Yes,”_ Hermes hisses, baring his teeth as Seraphim wraps his arms around him to raise those hips, legs lowering to lock behind Seraphim's back as the frantic smacks of their coupling grow louder. The cool bite of his thigh band pressing into Seraphim’s side, the contrasting heat of his breath against Seraphim’s temple as Seraphim lowers himself to suck even more bruises into that flawless flesh. Seraphim wonders how loudly he could make a god call out for him. _“Oh_ —fuck, yes, _harder,_ Seraphim—!”

Seraphim’s pants and grunts grow louder in his quiet tent, heat crawling up and down his spine as he smears the tip of his thumb over the messy head of his cock, neck straining as his head falls back, coasting to the edge of ecstasy with the speed of those damn winged sandals on Hermes’ feet. _Fuck_ —he thinks of those feet curled in pleasure, thumping against his back as Seraphim fucks into that tight, wet hole, again and again until the fingers in his hair grip _hard_ and tug, pulling Seraphim into a kiss as filthy as it is desperate, tongues curling sloppily against each other, swallowing each other’s sharp moans—

_“_ Ahhh _—ffffuck,”_ Seraphim gasps again, balls twitching within his firm hold as his cock finally empties, shooting warm stripes of cum over his belly and chest, a few drops even spattering up his neck and across his mouth. He palms himself through it, mind shorting out in a wash of pure white, lost to his pleasure, submerged in it, like the gentle waves of that lake, lapping over his head. And then he slumps back down into reality, lying boneless and senseless, catching his breath, heart thumping wildly, cum cooling against his tingling skin.

Half-conscious, he wipes himself clean with the edge of a blanket, turns over, and falls into a deep sleep.

A week later, he slays three nobles, a would-be deserter, and two of his own traitorous men before noon. Stands bloodstained and shameless beneath the sun's indifferent gaze.

This time, when Hermes appears to chastise him, Seraphim quickly and efficiently shuts him up instead.

**Author's Note:**

> I just think seraphim deserves to fuck everybody


End file.
